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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29673324">tomorrow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachcitt/pseuds/peachcitt'>peachcitt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Miraculous Ladybug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Ladynoir | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Post-Hawk Moth Defeat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:08:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29673324</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachcitt/pseuds/peachcitt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s alright,” he says. His voice cracks. Both of them pretend not to notice. “It’s not your fault.”</p><p>It wasn’t. But she’s still sorry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tomorrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two figures sitting on a rooftop, silhouettes. The moon hovers over them carefully, a crescent afraid to break the silence. One of the figures takes a breath, looks up into the sky at the hesitant moon, and he sighs. He closes his mouth again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera pans so that we can see their faces, only the bottom half. The girl’s teeth are worrying at her bottom lip. The boy’s mouth is firmly shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence stretches on. The night grows older, and still they sit. They need to go, to go sleep, but they don’t move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl, finally: “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy lets out a breath. “It’s alright,” he says. His voice cracks. Both of them pretend not to notice. “It’s not your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t. But she’s still sorry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish,” she starts, stops. Beat. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera pans down to their feet. The boy swings his back and forth, purposefully, as if to a melancholy song he sings to himself when he’s alone. The girl raises her legs, tucking her knees to her chest and curling her toes over the edge of the roof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy, quietly: “I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera shows us to him, fully. He’s a boy made of sunlight, dimmed. He’s wearing a mask, but he’s never been more himself, not really, than he is now in this moment. He’s crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s going to be a parade tomorrow,” the girl says, blurry in the background, and the boy’s lip trembles. The camera cuts to the space between them, watches with held breath as the girl reaches a hand over, gentle and shy, to take his. There’s a moment frozen, and then he laces his fingers with hers. “You don’t have to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thumb brushes against hers, an idle, purposeful movement. “Are you going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll go, too.” His answer was immediate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera cuts to the girl, her surprise buried underneath a few layers of empathy and compassion. We see her, masked, as she considers their hands and the boy beside her, trusting and in need. She looks down at her lap, eyebrows furrowed, and she makes her decision. When she turns her head to him, the camera moves with her so that we see the both of them, side by side and looking at each other. “You can stay with me for tonight, if you don’t want to go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks, confused. “Here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “My home,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s face moves, breaks, is remade. “Yes,” he whispers. He’s afraid to ask, afraid to have her change her mind, so he doesn’t ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera shows us their hands, together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two silhouettes, dropping down onto a familiar balcony. The moon is smiling softly now, watching out of the corner of its eyes so as not to scare the boy and the girl looking carefully around for prying eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy looks around the balcony, and the camera shows just him, alone, taking in the plants and the lawn chair and the familiar view. It moves, travels up to his face. His eyes are shining, somewhere just right of tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl: “Come down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s holding her hand out to him, and he takes it. She leads him down into her dark room, closing the door behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The features of the room are lost to the shadowy night, but his eyes travel across the shadows like they are old friends before his eyes rest on her again. She’s taken off her mask now, both literal and metaphorical. He takes off his literal one, too, and they stand, facing each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy, smiling, sincere, tender: “I always hoped it would be you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in the girl’s expression falls, breaks, reaches out. She pulls him into a hug that is tight, unyielding, and exactly what the boy has always wanted. He tucks his face into her hair, eyebrows furrowing in something between pain and love. The camera shows us her hands, curling into fists in the back of his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never cared about who you were,” she says, the camera showing us her face, pressed against his chest. There’s a steady, comforting thump in her ear, close and warm. “I loved you all the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera cuts so that we see them from a bit further away. They hold each other close. The dark cradles them, gentle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are laying in her bed now, on their sides, facing each other. Their fingers are tangled together, and she rubs the pad of her thumb over his fingernail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we going to do?” she asks, softly. “Where do we go now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” he says. He swallows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there anything more for us to protect?” She’s watching their fingers, her eyelashes close against her cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyebrows furrow. She’s tired, so tired. “Are we done?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For now,” he says. She looks up at him. They are far too young to feel so old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But tomorrow,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses her fingertips. “Tomorrow,” he agrees. His eyebrows draw together, his lips purse. “I’ll have to go home tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She studies him. She copies him, pressing her lips to his fingertips. A shaky breath leaves him as he watches her look back up at him. “This is my home,” she says softly, “but it can be yours, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes close. His chin trembles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She whispers his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy, so softly he can barely be heard: “I’m terrified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears gather in her eyes. “Me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence stretches. She wipes the tear that falls from his eye, and he leans his face into her touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be together tomorrow, won’t we?” he asks, moving his face closer to hers on the pillow. She does the same, their foreheads touching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She says: “Yes, always.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cut to black.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi hello tryin somethin new style-wise. you can blame edgar cantero</p><p>it's been a while, hasn't it? i know as of right now (24 feb 2021) i have some requests in my tumblr inbox that i still haven't gotten to. sorry about that. ive been meaning to do that, but times are weird. i'll get to them eventually, i promise</p><p>if you have no idea what im talking about that's okay. you can find me on tumblr and twitter @peachcitt if you'd like</p><p>thank you for reading&lt;3&lt;3&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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